It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet